Mom Was Right

I have a whole history with bikes, 
It’s gone on for thirty years. 
I have both good and bad memories, 
a lot of emotions, smiles, and tears. 

I got a pink ten speed one Christmas. 
Everything on my wish list, fulfilled. 
I caught the real “Santa” leaving it, 
I was upset, but loved it still. 

We would go on bike rides together. 
Mandi in Mom’s baby seat, Dad, me. 
We took turns choosing which way to go, 
because if not, we’d never agree. 

Mom always said, “Don’t switch bikes with friends.” 
One day, wild, I did so with delight. 
Racing down the street, the bike broke down, 
I wiped out, sprained my wrist. Mom was right. 

Once, riding down a hill at the beach, 
I flew hard into the sand, knocked out. 
The sand scraped my face, scabbed my nose. 
I should have gone a different route. 

I rode my bike to the library. 
Didn’t lock it up; seemed safe back then. 
When I came out, I felt something wrong. 
It was my fault my bike was gone. 

All these years later, and still no bike. 
I borrow Mom’s and it’s a bummer. 
I thought my biking days were gone, but 
I think I’ll buy my own this summer.